Thursday, June 4, 2009
The streets were crowded, and the rain was falling down in biblical proportions. Cal trekked 42nd, no umbrella, no jacket; just the veil of discomfort and regret covering him. Blood trickled from his brow and warmed his cheek as it made it's way down. His body, sore, battered and bruised.
A man yelled out as he ran into Cal. This didn't really effect him, not anymore. The bum looked how Cal always felt, a beaten piece of shit, garbage that could be tossed aside, and forgotten. At the same time it was freeing. He could now be able to act as he felt. Never in his wildest dreams did "get your ass kicked," equal positive life-change. Well sometimes we just need to get sense beaten into us.